Thursday, December 28, 2006

Christmas Etiquette

"Alreet, pet? Do you like stuffing?"

What ho, groovers. I trust you all had a "cool yule" as the Nathan Barleyesque youngsters say in fashionable Stourbridge these days.

Personally, I have had a tremendous time, although the body is starting to feel the pace a bit now. Honestly, it's almost as if I had just spent the last seven days pouring outlandish quantities of strong drink into my system, pausing occasionally to greedily chow down on a vast amount of rich food.

Who would have thought that aching kidneys, throbbing temples, bad skin and a torn arse would be the upshot of such Michael Winner-esque indulgences? Go figure!
(Another Stourbridge expression, you square-ohs probably wouldn't have heard it yet).

Anyhow, I haven't gathered you round to tubbyboohoo about a little indigestion and a mild hangover like some grizzling old putz. I'm here to drop a bit of etiquette advice on your asses.

I know, it's very generous of me, but that's what I'm all about. I live to give.

Firstly, there are rules that decent minded folk should all observe when they are a-visiting. If you are a guest at somebody's house for Christmas dinner, for example, there are certain dos and don'ts that apply.

Why not check them off yourself as you read, if, like me, you have recently imposed on the holiday spirit of any of your friends.

* Do compliment the host or hostess on the quality of the food. (Check. Half a point off for drunkenly mumbling "Eeeh, that was bliddy lovely, that" after each course)

* Don't bring the language of the saloon bar or the billiard hall to the table. Coarse expressions have no place at a genteel family gathering. (Would "Hey, look at you, you're sweating like a fat dog's balls!" be considered untoward, these days, I wonder? Ahem.)

* Do bring something to the table other than a healthy trencherman's appetite. An amusing anecdote or an interesting opinion can add sparkle to the conversation between courses. (Check. A graphic recounting of the recent Sunderland roasting footballers episode can certainly be relied upon to liven up proceedings)

* Don't just sit there when it's time to pitch in and get the dishes done (Oops!)

* Do know when to leave. A suitable time might, for instance, be when your host's family have all left and his girlfriend has turned up, eager to spend some quality time with him. (What? Even if you're right comfortable on the couch and it's freezing outside?)

* Don't hang around for a further three hours, making increasingly thinly-veiled and unwelcome insinuations that a sexual threesome might be a suitable modern-day alternative to charades. Comments regarding the Chuckle Brothers "To me, to you" catchphrase, playing cards over a lady's back and Christmas being a time for sharing, know what I mean, are not appropriate behaviour for a guest. (Listen here, we aren't really carrying on with this keeping score deal here, are we? Isn't it warm in here, eh?)

Christmas Day, eh? It's a modern day manners minefield, what?

Which brings us, with a pleasing inevitability, to Boxing Day. Again, ruthlessly exploiting the generosity of my friends, I pitch up a party and proceed to eat before and after me, all the while a-swilling on their best booze.

Now, the host of the party has a rather mischievous sense of humour. It can only have been this that led him, when issuing invitations to the party, to inform one couple that guests were expected to attend in Fancy Dress. Knowing the psychology of this couple and their love for getting all dressed up, no resistance to this suggestion was expected or encountered.

It's possible there are more enjoyable sights than two poor unfortunates entering a crowded house-party during the day, he dressed as a Mexican bandito, complete with outsized sombrero, colourful poncho and stick-on moustache, she wearing a charming, if a littl infantile, red-nosed reindeer outfit.

It's possible but unlikely. Further spice was added by the fact that half of the guests were strangers to the couple, being visiting members of the host's family. Bemusement all round was the order of the day to all but a few of us.

A rather cruel trick, one feels, but a dashed funny one. Totally beadled, as my fashionista chums would probably say.

Although I have since learned that the aforementioned media ponce-infested district is in face Shoreditch and not Stourbridge, as I may have erroneously stated.

I am a cowing fool and no mistaking. Have a bostin' New Year, me ducks!
PS Since so many of you seem to be looking for it, the Sunderland roasting thing is here.
You dorty porvorts.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Ins and Outs: Christmas '06

Opinions were divided, as ever, by the latest from the Ins and Outs Committee

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here, in the refined air of the internet 'blogosphere, to spout tommyrot vis a vis pornography, popular music and behaving like a schmuck when intoxicated.

Verily, that is what this holiest of seasons is aal aboot and lo! shall it come to pass.

That said, what better to put the mull into your wine and slip a shiny sixpence athwart your figgy pudding than a winterval-related rundown that differentiates betwixt what's Cool at Yule and what is, conversely, the way of the tool, the fool and the Hassan Kachloul.

To boil it down to one word: CHRISTMASINSANDOUTSAMHERE!!!!!!!!11!!!!OMG!!!!!!!


Talking to the bus driver about the legacy of Enzo Bearzot, concluding that it was "Pretty Good".
Mexican lightweight pugilists.
New potatoes.
Advising married women to get their husbands a half'n'half off a pro for his Christmas present. "I think he'd love it!"
Playing five-a-side in really manky, tatty old trainers
Lapis Lazuli Jewellery
On observing any display of feminine physical dexterity or gracefulness, exclaiming "Shee-it! That's hoe-etry in motion!"
Mount Chimborazo in Ecuador. It is skill.
Arabs and their diet of Snickers and Diet Pepsi, as seen on dodgy pub Sky
All the Dipset lads
Ensuring your workmates receive a daily update on exactly how long it is until Christmas. They love it.
This year's relative dearth of houses with garish over-the-top Christmas lights.
Taking a little time out to resolve one's financial affairs.
Young women who work in proper chemist's shops, smart and attractive in their white coat/overall get-up.
Buying sweet, beautiful booze online.
Antoine Sibierski
Christian Karembeu's pet Caribou
Implying you served time in the French Foreign Legion, but declining to elaborate when pressed.
Tutting furiously at fools
Saying "What's my name? My name is "Fuck you!"" to a bemused leisure centre receptionist trying to take your booking


Having cosmetic surgery done on your nutsack as "you don't like the way it looks".
Adopting a Glaswegian accent when in your cups.
Big dopey sods.
Nitwit females trying to cajole a chap into participating in an office "Secret Santa".
Knackering one's badminton racquet.
Young women who work in Savers/Superdrug/that lot. Slack-jawed gawkers in hideous polo shirts.
Being served a warm bottle of lager in a pub.
Grown-up men queueing up overnight outside some shop for the latest games console. For themselves, not a child of theirs.
Tubbyboohooing about having to write a few Chrizzo cards.
Claiming that just about every saturday afternoon scorer is "in your Dream Team"
Disrespecting the larger lady.
"Passing the ball into the net". Lash it, man!
The joyless collection of bonestrokers and baloney smokers who regularly attend pub quizzes.
Bouncers outside pubs who try to make conversation with you, as if they're real people and not hired goons. Step aside, no-neck!
Returning from Christmas shopping complaining about the crowds. Oh aye, what were you doing there, like? Making a documentary?
The Caspian Sea. The fucking twat sea, more like.
Anybody who plays fruit machines.
Referring to any dreadful mate in absentia as "Old Dog's Mess".
Chewing the ends of pens. Ink infested mouths are a turn-off, foo'!
Folk who act as though you have pissed in the crib of the real baby Jesus just because you won't wear your paper hat from the cracker.

Monday, December 04, 2006


Christmas isn't Christmas without a Festive Hit Parade, is it? Of course not. So put down your glasses and get your asses across to our bukkake, booze and bullet-riddled Yuletide broadside over here.

Have fun with it!

Sunday, December 03, 2006

I'm Getting Mint!

Evening chaps.

Forgive me if this instalment is a little brief and I seem distracted, I have been overdoing things rather a bit lately.

On Wednesday I visited nearby market town Morpeth for Norses Pay Neet (nurses pay night), a traditional monthly event that sees the public houses jam packed with up-for-it males and females, noisily getting wrecked, much copping off, that type of thing.
Personally, this isn't my type of thing, I'd rather be curled up in an armchair with the latest unputdownable novel by Emile Zola, but one of my oldest and dearest pals had his heart set on it so along I went.

It was an odd sort of an evening that ended up with me making laboured small talk with an attractive nineteen year-old who was staying resolutely faithful to her absent sailor boyfriend while my chum was eagerly getting to grips with her infinitely more compliant fat mam. Not the first time that my good friend and I have been confronted with a
mother and daughter combination but perhaps not the ideal way to be spending one's time.

Being there for a chap though, that's what true friendship is all about, yes?

Friday was another booze up, this time with my dreadful mates from five-a-side association soccer. As the event was being held in Jesmond I bravely negotiated the Tyneside Metro system and alighted at Jesmond.

A mistake.

You have to get off at West Jesmond if you're going to Osbourne's. Don't you even know that? I do now. Having been issued instructions via mobile telephony - "Gan to West Jesmond and ask a student which way to go" - I eventually met up with the fellows and a good night was had by all.

An unusual thing happened on Saturday morning. Having taken it to work prior to going straight out on Friday night, there was no toothpaste in the house. This posed a problem since, like most decent folk apart from Shane McGowan, I never leave the house without brushing my teeth.

I am quite the metrosexual, what?

However, I attempted to get around this impasse with the aid of a bit of lateral thinking.

I have a bottle of expensive mint-scented shower gel by the bath. That's what I'm all about, by the way, high end male grooming products. I'm worth it, you see. Anyhow, calculating that as long as it was minty, Brer shower gel would just about do the job as a makeshift dental hygiene agent.

It is quite a curious thing, cleaning your teeth with shower gel, not an unmixedly pleasant experience, to be honest. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, a strongly soapy taste, that sort of deal.

Still though, what doesn't kill a chap makes him stronger, they say. Not sure that Stephen Hawkings would agree with them, but what does he know, eh?

Well, he knows about shagging nurses, which is more than I do.

Tickle it you wrigglers, I'm audi!

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Sweeping The Nation

Hola there, muchachos.

Brainy pop 'blog "Sweeping The Nation" have had a feature running throughout November where various coves would go on a bit about a record they like.

You get to download thirty assorted tunes, so it's worth dropping in just for that, although the writing therein is peachy keen and bitchin' too.

In a reversal of the usual "save the best 'til last" policy, they have rounded things off with some old fool going on about Snoop Dogg.

"Songs to Learn and Sing" am here!

Friday, November 24, 2006

Reggae, Steady, Go!

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting
Some reggae chaps, last Sunday

Sredni vashtar, pop kids, how the devil are you all? I am jogging along tolerably well, although, brr, isn't it cold these days?

I digress. You don't want to hear me blether on about the weather, do you? Of course not. What you want is some unlikely tall tale and some low-minded booze-using exploits, featuring boorish behaviour in some hellish north-eastern drinking den. Very well, let us make haste.

You may have noticed it's been quite some time since I dropped any street science your way. I know how you pine for the soothing words of your Colonel and believe me, it cuts me like a really sharp, jagged knife to think of you poor unfortunates going without.

It has been in a good cause, though. I have been engaged in Bringing Sexy Back.

Yes, I thought you'd be pleased. You've have probably noticed a marked increase in Sexy over the past couple of months. Possibly you credited swivel-hipped pop gibbon Justin Timberlakes for this.

While it is true that Timbo has been the public face of the campaign to reinstate Sexy, but it is yours truly who is the power behind the throne, the eminence grise, the head honcho, if you will.

An executive decision was taken at an early stage to get young JT involved as it was crucial to the success of the project that his core constituency of halfwitted, yet fruity, young women were brought onboard. You may remember Gordon Brown employing Tony Blair to great effect as part of a similar ruse back in 1997.

Happily, it has all panned out splendidly. Everywhere you go, Sexy is to be found, thriving and flourishing. Teenage pregnancies are on the up, chlamydia is spreading like spunk-borne wildfire, the clap clinics are doing a roaring trade and the chances of an unattractive female getting a job on television are slim to non-existent.

Hats off to all concerned, I think you'll agree.

To the oafishness.

The recent Boss Sounds Reggae Festival at Newcastle Polytechnic was a coming together of the region's disparate musical tribes. The ageing 2-Tone nutty boys, the roots and reggae crews, white rastas, dope smokers, students, all that lot.

It also provided a chance to drink all day in the cheap Student's Union bar and gawp at middle-aged lasses in short skirts and Doc Marten shoes. Naturally, I was there with my hair in a braid and a couple of dreadful mates at my side.

We gathered in the upstairs bar, swilling lager (£2.50 a pint, since you ask) and checking out the fashions. Some top-notch threads were on display: Harrington jackets, Crombies, sharp suits, Fred Perry polo shirts and sweaters, Dr Martens Bother Boots, trilbies, porkpie hats, Sta-prest trousers, vintage denims and all manner of leisurewear bearing Jamaica/West Indies/Cannabis Reefer related ingnias.

Don Letts spun some rare old reggae records as the crowd eased themselves into the day and got all tanked up.

To the main auditorium and, after the pleasant but anonymous Pama International, it was eyes down, look in for the grand entrance of the legendary Lee "Scratchcards" Perry. Now, I may be laughed out of town for making this claim, but I reckon old Lee has done a fair amount of drugs in his time.

It may be the skull on a stick he was waving all night, it may have been the white and gold robes he was clad in, it may have been the shambolic, moonman patter about "I am the natty man, I am the voodoo man" that he prefaced Every Single Song with, but something told me that there goes a man who wouldn't pass an IOC urine test with flying colours.

Another cove who appeared to be living for pleasure alone, was singing walnut Modfather Paul Wellers out of The Style Council, who was warming up for his own Newcastle gig the following night by "taking in" the Scratchman's show. With his indoor sunglasses and bleached blonde spiky hair, he bears an increasing resemblance to Rod "the Mod" Stewarts. Like Rod, he seemed similarly pre-disposed towards anything blonde and female, lurching from one enthusiastic recipient of popstar lovin' to the next like a leathery, lecherous tree monkey.

While we agreed that this is excellent behaviour, we reflected that if we mere nonentities were to act in such a drunken, lascivious manner, we would be met with a slightly frostier reception.

Women, instead of puckering up like billy-o, would say things like "Fuck off, you fat weirdo". Security guards, rather than beaming down indulgently, would escort us to the exits and propel us into the cold with a boot up the jacksie.

Honestly, it's one rule for Godfathers of dadrock and another rule for sweaty dullards, isn't it?

The man who the majority of the crowd had come to see was Prince Buster, the original rudeboy and spiritual father to all things ska. A heaving moshpit was skanking away to such classics of the genre as "Whine and Grine", "Madness", "Too hot", "Orange Street", "Enjoy yourself", "Hard man fe dead" and "Al Capone".

Other than one brief scuffle among a few over-excited skinheads, the mood of the crowd was jubilant, most of the people honoured to be in the presence of a true pioneer of the music to which a lot of them had clearly devoted a great part of their life.

Jimmy Cliff was the headline act, another reggae giant and another rapturous reception. He strolled onstage looking more sprightly than any seventy year old has any right to look. Whether this was due in any way to the extremely attractive female dancer/vocalist/whatever that was sharing the stage with him, I could not say.

What I will say is this: Giddy up!

I was just enjoying the performance of all of those onstage when a rather substantial female lumbered up behind me and started using my shoulders as a stable vantage point on which to rest her fancy camera and start snapping shots of all and sundry.

In answer to my turned head and raised eyebrows, she simply said "I'm just using you as a human tripod".

I drew myself up to my full height and answered here "Madam, you don't know how right you are". And let me tell you this, I nailed that line. You'd have been so proud of me.

A waste really, as the lady in question was a hoond. Rats cocks!

We left shortly afterwards, my two aforementioned lowlife colleagues wanted kebabs. Clearly the lure of the much-vaunted singer of "The Harder they Come" was nothing compared to a large doner with garlic sauce, plenty onions.

I bet this never happened to Lester Bangs or Nick Kent.

Anyhoo, until next time, keep wrecking dat pum pum and stay sexy.

I'm gone.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Ins and Outs: November '06

Look who's back on the motherfuckin' blog,
with a fat list for your motherfuckin' gob.

First things first, as Deng Xiaoping would have it. For maximum infotainment pleasure, fire up the official "Ins and Outs" theme tune from here.

Only move on to the list proper when this is done and the frou-frou Teutonic plinky-plonk pop tune is playing nicely in the background.

Do it!

Sitting comfortably? Then let's grip it and rip it.


Getting in for nowt
Making terrible conversation with a taxi driver when all boozed up and strongly believing that there is some sort of fraternal bond between you
Taking a quiet 10 minutes to speculate what a little executive hand relief off Shari Lewis and, more importantly, Lamb Chop might be like.
Being firmly of the opinion that the work of reggae artist Shaggy is due a massive critical reappraisal
Having the kind of body that'd shame Adonis.
Chaps in their "late twenties" grinning like simpletons and jumping around like loons in the pub to that Fratellis record
Lesbians from Dudley
Being able to recite the entire lyric to Warren G's "Regulate"
Smiling like a Werther's Originals grandpa and saying "I don't think so" to a Harry Ramp when asked for spare change.
Having long conversations discussing the respective merits and qualities of female Sky Sports News presenters
Middle aged women
Claiming to know what's "going down a storm in the clubs"
Selling your clothes when you're out on the town
Those hazy, crazy marimba rhythms
Bending one in with the outside of your foot
Reading from the Good Book before retiring to one's bed chamber.
Cheating on the Bamber Boozler quiz by pressing another button when you know you're wrong.
Having a goodly selection of herbs in one's provisions cupboard.
Commenting to your dreadful mate that the alehouse you are in seems to be hosting the regional heat of "Odd-looking Cove of the Year" tonight.
Being able to balance a pint pot on one's head


Females who attempt to tell you stories about their cats.
Claiming that you "like to work hard and play hard"
Joining the Territorial Army purely on the basis that "they give you a new pair of boots".
Leaving the disco alone
Gangs of scratters in pubs, itching for it to "aal kick off"
Having photos of cleavage/old chaps/that type of thing on your mobile phone
Tantric onanism
Finding the all-night garage closed.
Telling lasses you're a property developer.
Pavel Nedved's bedspread
Lily Allen, the Happy Shopper Althea or Donna
Cheerily informing your opponent "That's Numberwang!" as you pot the black at pool
Caesar the Geezer
Crying off from a night in the pub, claiming you're going to tabernacle
Going to bed with Fearne Cotton, waking up with Fran Cotton
Taking an active role in local politics
Glakey, slack-jaw types draped over their trolley as they trundle the aisles in Sainsburys
Cormorants. Cunts more like.
Pipe smokers in pubs.
Telling acquaintances you've had "a right good clear out" as though you expect a park to be named after you for such an achievement.

Baked potaters!

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Who's Got the Craic?

A bridge, in Dublin, last week.

Top o' the mornin' to you, space cadets. I'm just back from the ould Emerald Isle, so I am, to be sure, in a very real sense, faith and begorrah.

Check out the camera work, eh? I am a regular Beverley Goodway, yes? A career in chocolate box and postcard photography surely awaits, what? If you behave yourselves, I may even bung a picture of a country cottage up later. Yes, it is a big wow, actually. Don't take that sarcastic tone with me, or I'll box your lugs for you.

Let us move on.

If this were a report on "The Holiday Programme" or "Wish You Were Here, Do You?" there would now follow a cavalcade of cliches regarding scenery, the craic, the black stuff, fishing, a relaxed pace of life and really small pubs with folk bands playing within. Well, I'm no Judith Chalmer, so F. that S. I'm giving you the real dillio.

Yes, there are all manner of good things in Ireland. Yes, there are a number of fine chaps and good-looking colleens with whom you can have a fine and dandy time. But there are drawbacks too.

Transport. The flight from Newcastle to Dublin took forty-five minutes. The bus journey from Dublin Airport to Dublin Heuston Railway Station took an hour. Then a bone-shaking, slow-moving train took three and a half hours to get to the west of the country. This journey, until recently, took over four hours before the advent of some new rolling stock. In your face, the Tokyo bullet train!

From what I can gather, the roads are no better, with the country having to share one motorway which gets you at a good old pace to the logjams and bottlenecks of the Dublin traffic chaos. The rest of the country has to make do with converted bridle paths with the attendant ever-present threat of some country buffer barrelling into the road in his tractor with no thought of signalling or checking what's coming.

"Ooh, tubbyboohoo! Does the poor baby not like the nasty old infra-structure, then? Diddums!" I hear you chide. Well, yes you may have a point there, but try this one for size.


We've all occasionally leafed through the Daily Mail or the Express, shaking our heads disapprovingly at the half-baked xenophobic tommyrot therein, I'm sure. Recently, there has been much gnashing of hair and rending of teeth regarding the Foreign Hordes from the Eastern Bloc who are going to Swamp our Once Proud Nation.

Some of them are even worse in Ireland. You can't ride a bus or enjoy a pint without some oaf sounding off about the Poles or the Nigerians coming over here and "bleeding the system dry". The general consensus among such lackwits is that they should "send them feckers back where they came from".

Unskilled labourers from Romania or Ghana get equally short shrift.

This, I feel, is a bit rich from a country whose principal exports were, until recent times, burly navvies, nuns and teenage girls seeking abortions.

However, there is a more serious canker that makes the Irish Republic a place where the traveller should beware.

I am referring to Commercial Radio.

There is no BBC in Ireland.

The first "B" stands for "British", didn't you even know that? This means that every station is blighted with radio advertisements, the worst form of advertising in the world. Yes, worse even that spam e-mails for phentermine and viagra. Worse even than the Crazy Frog thing.

Whether it is jabbering mobile phone salesmen or culchie businessmen doing their own voiceovers, the Irish radio advert is the world's worst. All of this is before we get to the radio presenters, or "jockeys of the disc" as they style themselves.

These no-goodniks make Terry Wogan sound like Tim "the big dawg" Westwoods or one of those Radio 1 Xtra urban fellows in comparison. Their links go on forever, they read stories out of the paper, they host vapid phone-ins where the political views of some redneck farmer's wife in Ballyhaunis are sought, they give their nitwitted opinions on music when they eventually get around to banging a tune on.

They are cunts.

On that sour-faced note, I'll bid you good night.

PS It was €3.80 for a pint, since you ask.

A mighty oul' drop o' the black stuff in a lovely country pub it was, fiddle band a-gogo and twinkling-eyed ould ones and Corr-esque Colleens left, right and centre. The craic was mighty, so it was.

Aha! the old Colonel double-bluff! You fell for it, didn't you?

Ireland is skill, really.

But know this. In Ireland, a lot of them still listen to Heavy Metal music. Think about that.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Whitley Gay?

Cowabunga dudes, y’all been peachy? No? Too bad, go tell it to the marines, I ain‘t got taaame for that bull shee-id.

You’re probably here expecting my forthright opinions about the Turner Prize nominees, the number of levels on which voguish US TV drama “Lost” works or a gushing review on the latest best-seller from Baudelaire.

However, I am going to go against type by waffling on about getting pissed up on booze in Whitley Bay again. Consider your expectations subverted, suckers! I’ve gorn and thrown you a curveball, what?

You’re probably aware of the drill by now. Some chaps birthday, ten assorted losers, boozers and jacuzzi users squashed into a taxi, waal-to-waal tidy boilers, all that. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose, as our dutch comrades would have it.

The fine tradition that exists whereby the DJs in all of the pubs in Whitley Bay only play two records all night was being upheld in noble fashion by the denizens of the steel wheels, particularly the cove who looked like Sam Allardyce sporting a handlebar moustache.

The two records in question being the techno stormer "Put your hands up 4 Detroit" and the camp disco bitch floor filler "I don't feel like dancing, me" by The Scissor Sister Band. The latter was the subject of much derision from the more conservative wing of our party, hidebound reactionary sorts who still listen to Oasis. Personally, I like it, I think it's good, but not everyone is as liberal as I am in regards to our "pirates of mens pants" brethren. A shame, I think.

The reason for this expedition was the birthday of one of our group, a notorious hellraiser and ladies man. Hats off to him for the assiduous and painstaking manner in which he ensured the adherence to the practice of buying drinks for the birthday boy. I'm sure he produced a clipboard and checklist at one point, proving to be a very organised fellow where getting gratis grog was concerned. Good work, longshanks.

However, something seemed to be not quite right. For a start, it wasn’t a Bank Holiday Monday, the traditional date for a jaunt up the coast. Secondly the pubs, normally chocker to blocker, weren’t as busy, the empty spaces exposing the threadbare, down-at-heel nature of some of the less exclusive premises. The hot topic on everyone's lips, however, was The Mystery Of Where All The Smart Blart Was!

It was with a sickening sense of comprehension that it dawned that the town seemed to be filled with big gangs of knuckle-dragging blokes and raddled old women choking for a bit of Tyne Dock. No place for a bunch of fresh-faced sophisticates such as we. It seemed that an unheard of bad night in Whitley was unfolding.

The town was so quiet that not one single cackling woman had invaded the gents toilets in a bid to avoid the queues at the Ladies and glimpse some cocks.

Long faces abounded and there were mutterings of jumping ship and heading for Newcastle.

However, the deus ex machina was waiting for us in the next bar. I forget it’s name but they have a raised stage with railings around it for lasses to get up on and dance. And get up and dance they did.

In the words of Eric Burdons, there were long ones, tall ones, short ones, brown ones, black ones, round ones, big ones, crazy ones. It was skill.

In addition to the ladies on stage entertaining all and sundry, there were lasses out on the floor, scornful of those who got up but intent on proving how dirtily they too could dance. As one of our party commented “She let us put me hands up her skirt and everything!”

The action hotted up further as two of the chaps had their shirts stripped off by amorous lovelies. Elsewhere, another fellow and a chunky lass from the Midlands got down to some heavy petting in the corner while our resident papparazzi style photographer was getting everything captured for posterity in a series of stills and moving images that the little pervert has probably knocked one out to at a later date.

That said, if you're looking in, bung any good photos of lezzing up this way, you hear?

By the time we made it to a nightclub the whole company was in high spirits and up for some dancefloor rug-cutting. The scene resembled one of those rap videos you see with all big booty hoes giving it plenty with asses akimbo, while chaps in white trainers give you the lowdown vis a vis bitches, brews and the electric boogaloo.

A capital time was had by all and there was even a bit of time to talk to women, which is always a fraught and potentially-embarrassing enterprise.

Now they may charge you the earth for a pot of booze in Whitley Bay but they clearly put something in it that warps the mind of the fairer sex.

What other explanation can there be for a large-bosomed blonde of twenty-one summers to not only talk to, but appear to enjoy the attentions of, a sweaty-faced shaven headed thug who won’t see thirty again?

Furthermore, it was surely the after effects of smoking crack cocaine are responsible for the same female being of the opinion that I looked about the same age as her.

Still though, giddy up, eh? A bit of a boost for the old ego, eh?

Also, there is the possibility that it was a combination of my dancefloor twinkling toes and cavalcade of stinging lines that I laid on her that she liked.

In a chimp’s cock! She must have been on the pipe. Or a mentaller.

The proceedings broke up around half two and a taxi ride back to civilisation ended up with empty pockets all round and complex bartering with the driver as seven drunken blokes attempted intoxicated arithmetic with ten pound notes thrown about like rice at a wedding.

The snoozers in the party crashed out almost immediately, drooling out the sides of mouths or repeatedly banging heads against radiators while the more alert of us knocked back bottled lager and white wine while monging in front of music TV and talking pseudo-chav nonsense about "whiteys", "bewers" and "cabbage".

It had been a long night.

Get down and get with it, pop kids. I’m audi, y'all.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Ins and Outs: Mid-September '06

Forced to return early by the wave of protesters chaining themselves to horses and throwing themselves under railings, we bring you a bonus edition of the list that tells you how to think, behave, dress and generally act yourself when in your cups.

To wit, Ins and Outs am here!


Being well within your rights
Telling folk you are into Eastern spirituality when your entire knowledge of the subject has been gleaned from "Monkey" and "The Water Margin"
Reminiscing about your entirely fictional days as part of a "dance crew" some say "street gang"
Following any spoken sentence with a short pause then a very emphatic "Yes!"
Nibbling on custard creams while thinking about Wentworth Golf Club
The little wave bus drivers do as they pass another bus.
Chien Ming Wang's lethal sinker ball
Keeping it in your pants
Falling in with the wrong crowd
Re-gripping one's badminton racquet
Japanese stuff
Eating "full english breakfast in a tin" half way up Mount Aconcagua
Not knowing how to make "stock"
While urinating, turning your head to the side and nodding happily like Stevie Wonder
The music of Gert wilden
Getting the forecast up at the dogs
Spending a "pampering day" at a health spa, the only chap there, surrounded by fruity well-to-do housewife types
Donating tins of Smart Price corned beef to the local Harvest Festival appeal
Storming out of city centre boozers in a fit of pique when there is no slice of lime to go in your modish imported bottled lager
Spreading mealy-mouthed workplace gossip


Asking lap dancers what conditioner they use
Cocking a snook at received wisdom
Claiming to have spent the weekend meditating when everyone knows you mean "masturbating"
Referring to anybody as "currently residing in the "Where are they now?" file. You currently reside in the "I am a turd" file.
Bus journeys spent under the withering gaze of a baby that resembles Edward G Robinson in one of his less sanguine moments
Grown men riding, and indeed doing "tricks" on, BMX bikes
Dressing as a matelot in a blue jersey and bell bottoms to impress the girls down the pub.
Absinthe. The devil's brew.
Acting all arsey when your Placepot is knackered after one race
Lonsdale trainers
Cracking on to lasses in chip shops, asking if they like Werner Herzog
Putting down a tenner for your works Christmas "do"
Pudgy, sunglasses-wearing television poker players
Claiming to "read the game" when in fact you are "dead slow"
Chatting to some mascara-ed up student type about the merits of Tokyo Police Club
Shaving your own heed and going about the place, tufts akimbo, like a village idiot
Eating in restaurants while your dreadful acquaintances chirrup on all night about the food.
Ant infestation
Buskers using pre-recorded music as part of their act
Really meaning to get some new spectacles one of these days.

Until next time, let's make like an arse and shit it! Peace.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Blackpool Rocks!

Some lasses, lezzing up.

Oy oy, saveloy! How the hairy palmed hell are you all? I trust you fine firm-buttocked people had an enjoyable Bank Holiday weekend. I know I did, I've got the pictures to prove it.

Of course you're probably way ahead of me here, having read the post title and formed your conclusions in that clear-minded way you have. For the elimination of all doubt, let me confirm that I have been kicking my height in the hotspots and fleshpots of Blackpool, the Vegas of the North. And I'm here to tell you this: Blackpool is skill.

When you walk into a pub at half past three on a Saturday afternoon you expect a half-empty taproom with a few bar-proppers and pill-poppers gawping at Sky Sports News through a haze of roll-up smoke and onion breath.

Not so in da 'pool, you get a legion of cowgirls, bunnygirls, old girls and chaps in drag all boozing with two hands, groping each others arses and watching a limbo dancing competition. Within fifteen minutes of entering the first alehouse of the day, we had observed two lasses getting the girls out in the hope of winning an oversized bottle of non-vintage asti.

The prize was scooped by a chunky lass from Sunderland who was clearly living for pleasure alone. Having claimed her prize she helped strip some young chap who had been helping out with the limbo. Excellent behaviour we all agreed.

After several more equally fine bars followed by some burgers and chips, it was back to the guest house for a scrub and a clean shirt. We need not linger too long on the squalor of our hotel, life is an unpleasant enough business without dredging up images of clammy, flea-bitten bedrooms and piss-stinking lounges. Let us move on to more edifying matters.

It seems that your modern girl, when she gets her head into a pink stetson, forgets all her inhibitions.

Not for nothing, but it isn't every day that one gets goosed by a scouse lady wearing a ten-gallon hat emblazoned with "I'm gagging for it". More's the pity. Unleashed in such a bacchanalian atmosphere your geordie boys and yorkshire coves aren't backwards in coming forward either.

Anyone who has spent any time watching Granada Men and Motors will be aware of the sensational effects that pointing a camera at intoxicated female revellers can produce. This phenomena holds almost as true when one is wielding nothing more impressive than a camera phone. Check out the impressive result above, your Colonel is quite the David Baileys, eh?

Giddy up, I feel you will agree.

Another snippet of information the traveller may wish to store in the old memory banks is that there are several lapdancing bars on the seafront which offer free entry. Now, I'm sure that you disapprove of the whole lap dancing thing and so do I. These places are clearly frequented by only the lowest of the low; sad inadequate men who can't even get a woman in the bawdiest of low taverns that are, to coin a charming northern phrase, "waal to waal blart".

Also, the girls aren't allowed, by law, to get their fannies out in Blackpool establishments.


Anyhow, heading away from the gutter, the second day of our stay saw more drinking, more fry-ups, more chips and burgers in takeaways.

All of which high living has an inevitable effect on the digestive tract of the adult male. Wisely realizing that no real skirt chasing is going to be successful with a set of guts that is emitting toxic fumes, it was down to some heads-down, no-nonsense drinking, followed up with an extra portion of shouting on, breakdancing in kebab shops, communal singing and general oafery.

Now I may be wrong about this, but I believe that if that isn't what it's aal aboot, then the terrorists have already won.

I'll bid you good day.

Friday, August 25, 2006

Ins and Outs: September '06

Summer's last golden embers are flickering and sputtering out. Fear not the changing, ever changing seasons, reminding us of the inevitable passing of time. Instead, embrace the russet tones of Autumn, some say Fall, by turning on, tuning up and copping off with the "must-haves" and the "rather-you-than-mes" that will characterise the coming month.

I think that what the artist is trying to say is that, in a very real sense, Ins and Outs am here!!!!!11!!!!PLENTYONIONS!!!ONE!!!!!


Half-heartedly pondering whether to get an Airedale terrier
Placing a hat at a jaunty angle atop one's television set.
Believing oneself to be "on a promise"
After one of your dreadful mates has recounted some long-winded and distressing tale of his wife leaving him, getting the sack, declaring bankruptcy and so forth, as soon as he shuts his yap responding winsomely, "I suppose I'm best described as just the girl next door".
Givin' it laldy
A Harry Ramp snoozing in the sunshine on a bench in a busy shopping thoroughfare
Getting all lairy while strung out on bennies
Having an air of the "Gloomy Gus" about you
Hockling off bridges
Making intelligent runs
Chicken and mushroom pies
Stretching out one's fingers and repeatedly slapping one's thighs three times before rising from a sitting position.
The Counting Count
Running the rule over the moth-eaten, Woodbine-toking denizens of a downmarket pub and proclaiming "My name is Buck and I'm here to fuck!"
Fiddler crabs
Exclaiming "I ain't got taaam for this bull Shit!" in the style of a pimp who is having ho problems.
Jason Giambi. Drug-free and swinging a mean bat.
Fleabitten seaside B&Bs
Having it on good authority.
Glaring suspiciously at the food on the end of your fork


Joggers who run in a stupid, unco-ordinated fashion. You've taken the time and trouble to buy vest, shorts and expensive running shoes, stop running like a div kid.
Scrawny goth lasses.
The Pentatonic Scale
Batteries with a particularly short life
Copping an att.
Holding the ball up well.
Smoked fish.
Glamma Kid
Harrumphing tommyrot on the news about obesity. Fat blokes are jolly and fat lasses have big tits. Problem?Paying celebrity prices
Folk who bring their dog on the bus
Quoting lines from Baudelaire to strippers
Liking the band The Red Hot Chili Peppers and, even worse, referring to them as "the Chilis"
Appending an unnecessary "yeah?" to every bastarn sentence.
Tonguing your partner's rusty scone cutter. Ugh.
Wondering what went on in Gomorrah to get God all shirty.
Being vehement.
Inzy's grey beard.
Scratters driving around in little cars with tinted windscreens.
Regrettable drunken incidents

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Cud: it be magic

Tally ho, pop-pickers, how's it growing?

Another unforgiving week filled with seven days worth of distance run, which isn't that far these days, has passed. This week I won't be telling you tall tales of drinking bars dry, banging cocktail waitresses two at a time and getting into knife fights with mexican guys. The reasons for this are twofold. Firstly, none of those things have happened.

Secondly, and more importantly, the rock establishment has been shaken, I say shaken, to it's very core by the return of the Yorkshire indie-rock behemoth that is Cud. And your correspondent was there on the scene to behold them in all their glory.

For the cloth-eared and ignorant out there who are scratching their slack jaws and thinking "Who are The Cuds? I never heard of them", then find out what you've been missing here , here and here.

Led by well-fed, floppy haired ginger nut Carl Puttnams, the Leeds four-piece were a clunking, rocking, caterwauling sex-pop indie-funk cult back in the late eighties/early nineties. Their charismatic frontman, a sort of Morrissey you could have a pint with or a Jarvis Cocker who liked his food, was a sweating, shaking bellowing hunk of a man, an unlikely sexgod in a constituency of baggy tight wearing, over mascara-ed provincial polytechnic students.

The ladies loved him too!

A little bit of comedy for you, there. Filling the void left by Ronnie Barkers, what?

It must be nigh on twelve years since the band existed in any meaningful form and yesterday they chose Newcastle's Carling Academy 2 to launch their comeback, a tour in support of an anthology entitled "Rich and Strange".

A capacity crowd were treated to a pleasant set of whiny-but-likeable guitar pop from some support band whose name I didn't catch. The band members seemed happy enough with their performance, as did their mams and dads in the audience.

Aw, bless.

The main band didn't keep us waiting, their entrance was greeted like a returning cup winning team, albeit with the odd lackwit doing the "You fat bastard" chant. Really, did Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine die in vain?

Let us never return to those dark days of snakey'n'black-swilling student union oafishness, chaps.

Carl Puttnam, since the break-up of the band, has reportedly been working in an off license retail outlet. From his appearance last night, the good people at Oddbins must have a generous staff discount, and why wouldn't they? Beer and beef give a man shape, or beer and quiche if you're a vegetarian. Whatever, he still had the old magic as he belted out a set of lost classics and minor chart smashes.

With most of their back catalogue out of print at the moment, Cud are one of those bands who you really do forget how many good songs they have.


Not really, more comedy there. Enough with the joke funnies, you say? Perhaps you are right.

Suffice to say that this chap in his, ahem, mid-twenties was delighted to rediscover such bostin' tunes as "Strange kind of love", "Only a prawn in Whitby", "Hey Boots" and "I've had it with blondes". The evening finished with one of the many legendary cover version the Cudband were famed for, a wry choice of Jethro Tull's "Living in the Past".

Here's hoping the band continue together after this tour. They seemed to be having fun with it and the audience were "mad for it" as we used to say back in the last century. With the current prominence of the Kaiser Chiefs, there must surely be a place for a band that did it better, louder and dirtier fifteen years ago and can still do it.

There was one unfortunate incident after the gig that slightly soured the evening for me. At a seedy tavern not far from the venue, I was the victim of prejudice and discrimination. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of my company in recent weeks I have adopted of late a short or "skin-head" haircut.

Some narrow-minded folks cannot see past this to the individual within, alas.

I entered the pub and was about to order a pitcher of foaming mead or somesuch, when the manager came scurrying across with a mean cry of "I'm not serving you. We don't want your sort in here!"

I was shocked and appalled. I admonished the chap, saying "My sort, sir? And what is "my sort"? Because I have a close-cropped hairdo, you automatically assume I am some sort of fascist bully-boy racist, do you? Well shame on you, shame on you and all of those like you. Anyone who would deny a man a drink because of some idiotic preconceptions is worse than Hitler, dammit". That'll fettle his lip, I thought to myself. But no, Mr smart arse had more.

"No, it's not the skinhead haircut. By "your sort" I mean the sort of person who came in here on Saturday night, all pissed up on booze, slavering on and annoying all the women and finally getting his cock out and having to be forcibly ejected. That's the sort I mean".

I swallowed something hard and jagged.

"You make a fair point and it is one I will take on board. I'll bid you good evening".

Fortunately The Black Garter was still open. They love my sort in there.

Bottoms up!

Monday, August 07, 2006

What Women Want

"What you lookin' at, sugar tits?"

Evening folks. Forgive the disturbing image at the top of this entry, let it serve as a warning of the perils of the demon drink. The gurning mug shown is, of course, that of the film star and historical revisionist Mel Gibsons. Not just a rubbish actor, also a rubbish drinker and a fellow with a rather rudimentary grip on relations with our semitic cousins. I know, I was as surprised as you that an Australian would spout racist tommyrot after a few tinnies. We live and learn, what?

Back to life, back to reality as Jazzie B often mumbles to himself as he queues to sign on. An altogether more wholesome image of booze-using was presented by your very own Colonel on friday night just gone. After an entire month of abstention from the pleasures of the bottle, the saloon bar and the paint thinner, it was back to drinking with two hands in Newcastle's prosperous outskirt Jesmond.

Far from making a spectacle of one's self and threatening blameless law enforcement officials, a pleasant time was had by one, and indeed, all. A couple of jars and one taxi ride later it was off to the jewel in the NewcastleGateshead leisure experience crown, the heady delights of Buffalo Joe's nite spot and charnel house.

This charming, wild west themed lager palace offers the thirsty reveller the chance to shell out a fiver to enter it's sweaty embrace. Hard-working bar staff will relieve you of £3.70 for a bottle of beer while your senses are assaulted by the asinine patter of the typical greasy'n'cheesy nightclub DJ. It's not that impressive, to be honest.

However, as the refreshing brew of the Corona Firewater Corporation begins to work it's magic, a softening in one's attitude takes place. The various stag and hen parties thronging the place like so much cattle, but cattle wearing devil horns, are probably all fine sorts when you get to know them. The DJ isn't such a bad sort after all, with his cheeky banter with the fatter members of the audience. Playing "Cotton Eye Joe" by The Red Necks Band three times in an evening may be seen as an ironic circumvention of the audience's expectations.

Three seventy is still a bit steep for a bottle, mind.

Anyhow, unworthy price-taggery aside, the more forgiving mindset may possibly be assisted by getting chatting to a lady. What is more, a lady in a cowboy hat. Giddy up, eh?

However, I shall say no more regarding this fine woman. A gentleman never tells, don't you know?

Especially a gentleman who got nowt. Bah!

Saturday saw another major event. The delivery of a new mobile phone. Now I must warn you, what follows is a less than thrilling discussion of said phone. The type of dreary conversation countless slack-jawed teenagers and thirty-something women who read Bridget Jones and Shopaholic novels have in offices and on buses the length, breadth and even heighth of this green, unpleasant land.

Still, this is a blog you know, not the Bill of Rights or the Magna Carta. You don't like it, blow me, huh? Va fangul!

That's got rid of the trouble-makers, moaning minnies and no-goodniks, on with the handset lowdown.

The Samsung E530 has all the usual things one expects from cutting-edge handheld technology;

* An mp3 player so one can enjoy the latest boppers from Lawrence Welk or Bounty Killer while out and about.

* A camera/camcorder, ideal for the gent who needs to take a quick snap of his old chap and send it to any ladies who may be interested.

* Texting, for the composition of such profundities as "CU in da pub M8" and suchlike.

* Bluetooth for the easy sharing of obscene short films and "fun" ringtones with one's dreadful mates in the local four ale bar.

All topper and dandy you are no doubt thinking, while possibly wondering "why is the fat knacker telling us this, it's well dull, and that?" Ah, my buxom young fools, be not ye so hasty for there is, as Jimmy Crickets was wont to note, more.

This model was possibly conceived on a friday afternoon at Samsung towers, when the guys in Product Development, perhaps after a long liquid lunch, were having an old brainstorming sesh, throwing around a few ideas and generally having fun with it. What other explanation can there be for the features that target this mobile at "the ladies"?

We start with the baby blue soft leather carrying pouch and matching handstrap. Totally queer eye, as the kidz say. These can easily be discarded by the man of taste, but further horrors lurk within the phone itself.

Just for the gals, there is a section under Applications entitled "Lifestyle". In here are such vital female goodies as a Biorhythms calculator, a calorie counter, a shopping list generator and a fragrance matcher.

This beaut asks you to select your favourite clothes, activities, colours, types of music, foods and drinks before generating, with a matching mood picture, a description of your ideal type of fragrance. Oh yes. I give you the intimate aroma of "Colonel":

Woody Scent Type - For the delicate and refined, the Woody fragrance has you in mind. The Woody scent reveals powerful wood fragrances (no shit, sherlock?) and touches the heart with the fresh, green tender tones of the forest, expressing a warm and comforting glow.

They love all that, the lasses.

Finally, the guys in Prod Dev have got a bit coy on our asses. The last feminine feature is called a "Pink Schedule". The lady puts in the date of her last "visitation" and the number of days in an average cycle and the phone generates a calendar for her which highlights the little woman's "pink days", the best days to get pregnant and her day of ovulation.

Thus armed, I shall be trying for a baby on the glorious 12th of August.

If you notice any unusually intemperate posts over the next few days please bear with me, I've just "come on".

Besides, what do you want for forty quids, a half and half off of Lady Melons Windsor?

L8rs, t8rs.

x x x


Sunday, July 30, 2006

Ins and Outs: August '06

Back again, like the first swallow of summer, the return of the think-tank that bombards you with bobbins like a half-baked howitzer. Survey our ordinance and chew on 'em like ruminants, because the Ins and Outs of August are raining down upon ya!


Greeting acquaintances with a chirpy cry of "Awright mate, how's it growing?"
On espying a female indulging in any kind of ill behaviour or "acting herself", casually remarking to one's associate "Dat bitch needs ho training"
Intoxicated public house toilet urination, resting one's head on the wall for support, blissfully unaware of the slash, snot, hockle and assorted effluvium contained therein.
Getting a skinheed haircut and pulling "zany" nuttyboy-style faces whenever you catch sight of your face in a mirror.
Happy endings
On getting your round in and being informed by the barkeep "Five pints, two bags of plain crisps and a Slim Panatella- that'll be £19.25", looking in your empty wallet, turning white and stuttering, "But...but I'm ruined! Ruined, d'you hear?!"
Demanding that you are always to be referred to as 'Hero of the Carpathians'
Passing by a pretty girl wearing a floppy hat out walking her baby on a sunny day.
A propos nothing, shouting "Ninja man! Boom! Boom!" in a Beenie Man style.
Having a go at trepanning. Whaddaya got to lose, eh?
This heat we're having.
The fine work being done by Matt Browns and Jayne Middlemi on "Love Island Aftersun" wherein they spin tv gold from the thinnest of thin gruels.
At the end of a long day spent captaining Industry or clinching deals in The City, removing one's clothes in the manner of a stripper, twirling the shirt and all the business.
In response to the simplest of requests, respond in an irritating faux-european manner eg "I am thinking that you would like two sugars in your tea? This is correct, yes?"
Playing neat one-twos.
Those shiny, nylon, old-man polo-shirts, as sold in Greenwoods, provide a natty look for the modish late-twenties man about town.
Shiny red lipstick. When worn by a woman, obviously. No weirdos.
Plighting one's troth to a wealthy dowager, flying in the face of the County.


Women who call each other "mate".
Using the subject line in an email to write the entire message and leaving the main body blank.
Oafish t-shirts with unamusing sexual innuendo slogans eg "Can I fcuk you up the arse?". Coarse.
Still driving around with your World Cup flags on your car.
Getting all boozed up on "adventure soup" ie absinthe and making a fearful show of yourself.
Getting all boozed up at a wedding and making a fearful show of yourself
Getting all boozed up after a Worlds Cup of Soccer quarter-final and making yada yada yada...
Identifying common themes.
Purchasing an "old skool" harrington jacket, with the tartan lining and everything, then having second thoughts and not wearing it.
Passing snotty comments about air crew as being "nothing more than glorified skivvies, really". What are you, a rocket scientist? No, you work in a bloody call centre, don't you? Eh?
Wearing Converse trainers, especially in the mistaken belief that doing so makes you "down wiv da kids".
Couples who tell you about TV shows that "we thought was good" or "we don't like". Just because you're shagging each other doesn't mean you have to share the exact same opinion about every single thing, capiche?
Public house musicologists who will tell you that the current song being played "is aal aboot wanking, ye knaa"
Them awful green and brown leather tasseled shoes you get in shops catering to middle-aged chaps.
Claiming to be well in with the Yardies
Young coves constantly referring to one another as "legends". You mean "bell ends", lads."
Going Commando". Does not suggest sexual adventurousness, as you may like to think. Rather, prepare for piss-stinking trousers and a balloon knot chafed ragged by coarse jeans stitching.
K-Swiss. Trainers for ponces.
That whole thing with Israel and the Arabs. They take it dead serious, don't they?
Rubbish personalised number plates that don't even resemble your name very much. The wretched denizens of a hell lower than that reserved for people with proper personalised number plates.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

The Food of Love: 2

More mp3 goodness for y'all. A warning though, these files are for evaluation purposes only. Listen to them once and, if you like them, go out and buy the albums. We can't have our major recording artiste buddies going without their cocaines and pointy shoes, can we?

Mix the second:

1. Ennio Morricone - Viva La Revolution (Tepepa)
2. The Flaming Stars - Ten Feet Tall
3. The Fall - F-' Oldin' Money
4. Big Black - Passing Complexion
5. Bert Kaempfert - Afrikaan Beat
6. Basement Jaxx - Run 4 Cover
7. Spankox - To The Club 8. Kenny - The Bump
9. Fatboy Slim - everybody loves a carnival
10. Camera Obscura - I need all the friends I can get
11. Joboxers - Boxerbeat
12. Smiths - Jeane
13. Iggy Pop and Peaches - Kick It
14. Upsetters - Dollar In The Teeth
15. Go! Team - We Just Won't Be Defeated (live)
16. Chemical Brothers - Where do I begin
17. Mohawks - Champ

File size - 68mb.


The Food of Love: 1

What ho, chums. Hasn't it been hot lately? I like it warm, but not this warm. Although it isn't so much the heat that gets me, it's more the humidity.

Anyways, I can't be blethering away about the weather like some sort of crazy old biddy you get stuck next to on the bus, can I? As you well know, the Colonel is all about bidness, so here's the deal.

Firstly, thanks for all the positive reaction I have received from well-wishers regarding my twin abstensions from "the booze" and "the one-night stands". I am pleased to inform you my resolve has not cracked. Laying off the sauce is proving to be no problem whatsoever, but it does trouble the old conscience to be constantly letting down members of the fairer sex who are keen for a night of no-holes-barred boot-knocking action. Still, omelettes/broken eggs/all that.

Next, what does a sophisticated bon viveur do when the pleasures of the flesh and the comforts to be found in a bottle are off the menu? Well, durr, don't you even know that one yet?

He watches ITV's soaraway success reality gameshow-cum-knocking shop "Love Island", that's what.

You may remember series one of "Celebrity Love Island" from last year. Long, lingering close-ups of Abi Titmu's beetle bonnet, Paul Danans going mental, Rebecca Loo giving Callum Bests a nosh in the showers, all that good stuff and much more besides.

This year they have dropped the word "Celebrity" from the show title. This is not because the contestants are so obscure that only their immediate family would recognise them, as some observers have been unkind enough to suggest. No, it is because the producers wanted to avoid the unfortunate acronym associated with a show called "Celebrity Love Island Two".

Thus far, the show has been top-notch entertainment all the way. Whether it's thickie Alicia Douvalls failure to recite the alphabet, Gazza's step-daughter giving Leo out of The Streets a crafty ham-shank under the covers or posho couple Lady Vicky Hervey and Chris "my dad is Pierce Brosnans, you know" Brosnans having dealings in the shower, it's been good stuff all the way.

Throw in the excellent bitch-fest show "Aftersun" on ITV2 where Matt Browns and Jayne Middlemi pour much-deserved scorn and ridicule on the pinhead inhabitants of the Island and you have all the ingredients for the televisual highlight of the summer.

Catch it now before it gets cancelled. Nobody else is watching it, you see.

Good though "LI" is, one can't watch it all day. So to fill the hours, one bangs a tune on. Because I love you all, I am giving you the chance to share the joy of voguish beat combos and forgotten reggae types in a bonanza mp3 mix giveaway type of thing. I spoil you, don't I?

1. The Harry J All Stars - Liquidator (Trojan Sound System Mix)
2. The Selecter - Too Much Pressure
3. Dolly Parton - Nine to Five
4. P.Neezy, Joanna Newsom and Tego Caldrone - Bridges and Balloons with a Bagel on It
5. JayZ - Big Pimpin
6. Gnarls Barkley - Crazy
7. Sean Paul- Temperature
8. l.o.c-ring ding ding (repack)
9. De'lacy - Hideaway deep dish edit
10. juelz santana - oh yes
11. Rick Ross - Hustlin' (Explicit Version)
12. morgan - miss parker
13. wire - i am the fly
14. Retro Spankees - Out Like One
15. Moldy Peaches - Who's Got The Crack
16. Mint Royale - My Heart is Beating Fast
17. Divine Comedy - My Lovely Horse

Click this link, then download the file (click for free download, wait a minute, then save) When completed, unpack the file with WinRar . File size is about 77mb, so it's really only for folk with broadband.

Have fun with it, I'm gone, kids!

Saturday, July 15, 2006


Cowabunga, dudes, I trust you are all bob, bob, bobbing along? You are? Capital, then we can grip it and rip it.

We step into this brave, post-World Cup world with a song in our hearts and a smile on our faces. For we have made A Big Decision. We, by which I mean I, have decided to take some time out from the business of punishing the liver and numbing the senses.

I refer, of course, to getting pissed up on the demon drink.

Much like that chap in Gerry Rafferty's excellent "Baker Street" I am "gonna give up the booze and the one-night stands".

Now the "one-night stands" part of the deal is a walk in the park that should pose no difficulty whatsoever. The local female population, perhaps sensing that I was edging towards this resolution or maybe because of a not unnatural aversion to fat, drunken knackers drooling over them, has been very helpful in cutting back the ONS quotient to an all-time low.

Thx 4 the add, ladies, it is much appreciated.

However, the question of giving up the booze is a more problematic affair. Yes, the medical community may wax eloquently about the restorative effects abstinence has on the liver, kidneys and assorted internal offal, but what of the soul? Many poets have spoken of the spiritual well-being and heightened awareness that slinging back the good stuff brings a chap. Can one really afford to miss out on all of this beneficial joie de vivre?

Also, the effect on one's erstwhile drinking companions cannot be underestimated. Nobody can enjoy getting a good skinful on board with a tutting, holier-than-thou sobersides in tow. One must tread carefully to avoid appearing judgemental.

Announcing that one has foresworn the booze causes bewilderment and resentment among a cove's dreadful mates. In two short weeks I have been accused of some foul booze-addled misdemeanour which has caused me to fear for my mortal soul, had my sexuality questioned, suffered interrogations as to whether I am suffering from some sexually-transmitted infection that requires anti-biotic medication and, worst of all, been called a "boring bastard".

That hurts.

Still, there are some positives.
  • No hangovers.
  • Meeting people the day after a night out without being asked "Are you still alive?"
  • No conversations with chortling memory-specialists that begin "By, you were drunk last night!"
  • None of those flashbacks where an unsuccessful attempt to press one's suit with a filly floods the memory with a sickening clarity.
  • A notable decrease in cuts and bruises caused by falling over in the street.
  • An extra few quid in one's poke. Those stout yeomen of the bar aren't shy with their drink prices, you know.
  • Getting loads of poontang, some say blart. The ladies like a clean and sober gent, you know.

That last one is a joke funny, by the way. The Colonel hasn't lost his razor-sharp wit just yet, what?

Until next time, keep on keepin' on, my moonfaced little cherubs. I'm outta here.

Monday, July 10, 2006

World Cup 2006: Epilogue

"Stitch that!!!"

So, my friends, we arrive at the end of the 2006 Worlds Cup of Soccer. What a ride it's been, eh? The white-knuckle excitement of Ukraine v Switzerland, the flowing inventive football played by England, Diego Maradonas acting the giddy goat like some old Greek woman at a funeral, this tournament had it all.

Our emotions were certainly put through a wringer over the course of a dramatic month:

We laughed at the zany flailing-elbow antics of Italy's De Rossis and USA's McBrides.

We cried tears of foul pity at the plight of Christiano Ronaldos, the Boy Who Can't Stand Up.

We cringed as Graham Polls made a proper James Blunt of himself.

We ranted drunkenly and incoherently in public houses about those two bell-ends in the Budweiser adverts.

We admired the wily Argentine coach as he once again took his playmaker off and threw away the game.

We wanked our tiny cocks over the footage of those two Swedish lasses in the crowd as they lezzed up in front of the world.

We kidded ourselves that England would get good at some point.

Still, at least there were some crumbs of comfort after England made their predictable battling, poor-penalty-taking exit. Italy won the most dramatic game of the tournament at the back end of extra-time, Portugal got two beatings with Ronaldos crying at the end and more, much more than this, Zidane nutted that chap in the final.

There will doubtless be much opprobrium flung the way of old Zizou, or "Zid Vicious" as The Metro freesheet memorably tagged him, and quite right too. If you are going to stick the heid on a chap it is always advisable to go for the face, ensuring that the nose is smeared liberally across the victim's unfortunate map. Claret flies everywhere, the whole place is in uproar and you can get in a few good kicks with your boot as the unfortunate fellow has a brief lay down while he regains his savoir-faire.

Headbutting somebody in the chest is a little, how you say, rubbish. Sort it out, Yosser Hughe!

Oh well, there's always the European Championships in 2008, co-hosted by those renowned party animal nations Austria and Switzerland. I'm backing England to take this tournament by the scruff of the neck and march triumphantly all the way to the quarter-finals.

Yah mo B there, bitches. Yah mo B there!

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

World Cup Ins and Outs 2: Electric Boogaloo

The goals, the saves, the missus. The roar of the facepaint, the smell of the crowd. Incinerating sausages in one's back garden while missing a crucial goal. These are all part of it, but nothing sums up the true flavour of the tournament like Part Two of the World Cup Ins and Outs!

(which am here!)


Loads of raking goals scored from long-range
Wayne Rooneys' miraculous metatarsals. Praise be!
African chaps in the full body paint get up.
Low quality goalkeeping
Michael Owens getting all defensive in interviews and sounding like Mike Skinners
The French being no good again. Enjoy it while it lasts
The Angola and USA kits
Gelsenkirchen! Trying saying it, it's great. Gelsenkirchen, Gelsenkirchen, Gelsenkirchen!
The Iran carpet square they hand over before kick-off
Liberally dousing one's old chap with yellow food colouring, then later on getting it out in the pub and telling everyone, in a George Formby accent, "It's me World Cup Willy, way-hey!" Switzerland, normally grindingly dull, having a goalie called Zuberbuhler and a forward called Hakan Yakin.
ITV's theme music. Hey, Kasabians, the sound of the streets, like it, yeah.
I joke of course, it's complete knackersweat.
Moody reserve keepers that don't get on with the other feller.
Setting up your stereo so that, on the occasion of a goal being scored, with a flick of a switch it pumps out "I like to move it" by Reel 2 Reel feat. The Mad Stuntman
Any sighting of oompah bands or lederhosen during a report from Germany
Injured players having to stay on because all of their subs have been used.
Otherwise reserved, perhaps even homophobic men, feeling it's alright to hug and kiss their mates due to a goal being scored.
The look of utter contempt in Gordon Strachans' eyes when asked something fatuous by Adrian Chile or Gary Linekers
Italy vs USA, the tournament's only good kicking match
William Galla going off on one when Korea scored.
Germany's hosting of the tournament sparking a renewed interest in the works of Goethe, Schiller, Schopenhauer and Sven Hassel


The old-fashioned, manky-looking stretchers being used, that resemble the type of thing Private Godfrey was kitted out with
Italy's "sweaty armpit" design kit and those horrible nike halved goalkeepers tops
After each impressive performance, claiming to have tipped them before the tournament
The confused, nonsensical punditry of David Pleats
England players seemingly being obliged to wear really shitty quality polo shirts when hanging about the hotel.
Folk wearing those football shaped hats at the match. Really, there's no need.
The BBC's masseeve added time graphic.
Showing action replays when the ball is in play
That pair of cornholes out of the Budweiser advert bumpers on ITV
Frankie Lampards just having a shot from anywhere
That deal with swapping those little footballs before kick-off
Endless shots of attractive women in the crowd. We get the picture, there are some tidy boilers in attendance.
Squeezing in an ad break between the end of the anthems and kick-off.
Men with sunglasses on the top of their head and wearing three-quarter length trousers, going on about "the footie"
ITV's much-vaunted website. It's shite. And that's swearing.
Pretending that somebody you know has mistaken Trinidad and Tobago for two different teams. No they haven't.
The return of eighties yuppie style stripey shirts.
The Czech Republic's reserve players being, to a man, big, fat, balding brickies.
The indecent haste with which the resurgence of Thierry Henry was proclaimed, only for him to bottle it again and miss a vital sitter.
England scoring when you've got a full pint, most of which is spilled during the ensuing melee

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

World Cup Ins and Outs

My friends, there is much World Cup flotsam, and to a lesser extent, jetsam out there tugging at your sleeve, craving your attention.

Some sort of wheat/chaff separation system is clearly required.

What could fit the purpose more exactly than an all-new, hip and dudey, freshly plastered World Cup Ins and Outs?

  • After entertaining your dreadful mates round your gaff for a match, as they leave presenting each of them with an exquisitely wrapped memento of the occasion- a small but expensively framed picture of yourself wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
  • Television reports from team hotels. Eeh look, there's Gary Nevilles in the swimming pool.
  • Remarking to anyone listening, "Is it just me or does Steven Gerrard have something of the village idiot about him?"
  • In the event of a stranger in the pub, carried away by the bonhomie of the occasion, attempting to strike up a conversation, asking in deadly earnest "have you ever killed a man?"
  • An old-fashioned big useless lump of a centre-half making an absolute James Blunt of a clearance.
  • The Korean team being filled with chaps called Bum Suk Ho and the like. Tremendous fun.
  • Elaborate African goal celebrations, hopefully involving simulation of pissing or copulating with animals.
  • The BBC's spot-on use of classical music as a background to highlights of tournament football
  • The moment when Germany get knocked out.
  • Regarding the telly over a pair of pince-nez, whilst carrying out complex needlepoint moves on one of those tambourine-looking type deals
  • Visiting a market and marvelling at the sheer variety and scope of England-themed tat.
  • Memorising all the second-choice goalkeepers and whenever a soft goal is conceded muttering darkly about "how they should have picked {Kochmeister/Dong/Jame} instead".
  • Plucky underdogs battling bravely for an hour before tiring and getting humped 4-0.
  • A colourfully-dressed African supporter in the crowd with a mad expression on his face.
  • Being off work and all boozed-up by six o'clock.
  • Charity shop dressing their dummies in red and white and putting little England flags in their hands.
  • Some arse-faced CBI type claiming the country has lost billions due to peole watching the football. Bollocks, they just pulled their fingers out and got their work done quicker. Take a chill pill.
  • The atmosphere around the place after a victory in the World Cup.
  • Any enterprising zookeeper who gambles on games on the basis of dressing two chimps in the colours of the competing teams and backing the teams whose chimp is first to fling its shit around.
  • Lasses in football tops. Giddy up!


  • Each time England score, putting on the Achy Breaky Heart song and doing the dance in front of the telly. And the full three and a half minutes mind, no shirking.
  • Collecting Panini stickers when aged above 12.
  • Down-at-heel types sporting unofficial crappy market-bought "Brasil" or "Italia" tops.
  • ITV
  • Televised press conferences featuring some unfortunate player who has been strongarmed into appearing, mumbling glib cliches while sweating like a lottery rapist.
  • Remarking every five fucking minutes on how tall Crouch is.
  • Middle class types who invite you round to watch the game and enjoy some "authentic cuisine (and drinks)" from the competing nations.
  • Unless the game is Germany v France when a bottle of Kronenbourg and some sausages will do nicely.
  • Endless television reaction shots of sweaty oafs over-emoting while watching the England game in some dreadful Romford boozehole.
  • Specky "When Saturday Comes" readers choosing to follow some African team because wanting England to win apparently makes you Vicky Pollards or something.
  • Commentators who adopt a modish new pronunciation of the name of someone they pronounce normally throughout the Premiership season.
  • That bloke being dragged out to do some godawful poem regarding the World Cup
  • Anyone circulating one of those dreadful "Priceless" doctored photographs via e-mail following England's inevitable demise.
  • Any nation's team that has a nickname or calls themselves Team Something or Other.
  • Hand-wringing shenanigans over who Scottish peole should or shouldn't support. Ignore them, they're irrelevant to the World Cup.
  • That awful geordie "fans committee burgomaster" bloke getting his stupid pompous face on the telly.
  • The Sun and The Mirror encouraging their readers to act the twat.
  • Football supporters of the type who give their kids eleven players names, overdoing the flag thing for more attention.
  • Sitting outside a pub on the cheapest white plastic garden furniture in all of Christendom, causing stickiness, burns and scrapes in the time it takes to drink a pint.
  • The moment Brazil win it again.

Colonel K is indebted to brother Shaq for his encouragement and contributions to the above list.